Night Sky

by Clare Francis

  ‘Vasson. Or Fougères. Or Biolet.’ Even as she said them Julie realised it was hopeless: he wouldn’t be using any of those names nowadays.

  As the editor started to leaf through the papers she began to feel a deep despondency. This would never lead anywhere.

  After half an hour the editor was satisfied: none of those people had ever been members of his club. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  Julie sighed and tried to think. ‘What about buying a second-hand Delage?’ she asked. ‘How would one find one?’

  ‘Ah! Ahhh!’ The editor looked earnestly at the ceiling as if that could give him the answer. ‘Mmmm. A newspaper. Yes, through a newspaper! That’s about all that’s been published, you see. Though there is Auto – I believe that’s kept going after a fashion. Yes, there’s Auto too. Here, I’ll give you the address.’ He scampered into the other room and came back with a piece of paper.

  Julie got up to go and said wearily, ‘Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.’ At the door she asked. ‘Did you have a Delage yourself once?’

  ‘Me!’ He laughed heartily, throwing back his head in a great guffaw. ‘Goodness gracious no! I could never have afforded even a twentieth of one. I was only an enthusiast! I just loved being near the lovely things, you understand. The most beautiful cars ever made …’ He chuckled again. ‘No! I just loved being near them.’

  The Auto office was quite near, only twenty minutes’ walk away. Although it was late – almost five – and the place likely to be closing, she decided to try anyway.

  In the end it was further than she thought, a good twenty-five minutes away. By the time she found the right doorway she was so tired she could hardly climb the four flights of stairs. No energy: she hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

  Finally she arrived, panting and shaking slightly, in front of a half-glazed door inscribed with the word Auto in scratched gold letters.

  She knocked and someone called, ‘Enter.’

  The office was a single room with a large desk on which a lanky man of about thirty was sitting, speaking into a telephone. He waved her into a seat and continued his conversation, which mainly consisted of sighs and tuts and expressions of despondency.

  Julie flopped down and closed her eyes for a moment. After a few minutes she opened them again and looked around her. She saw a copy of Auto on a side table and, picking it up, leafed through. Most of the magazine was made up of articles and photographs of racing cars, but at the back there were six pages of advertisements.

  Julie scanned them quickly. There was a Delage for sale … and a second and third. It looked quite promising. She looked for the date at the top of the page and felt a pang of disappointment. March 1938. Years ago.

  The telephone receiver was clanged down into its cradle and the lanky young man said with a frown, ‘How can I help you?’ He was, he explained, the editor, sub-editor, secretary and sole reporter of Auto magazine. ‘We’ve had to cut down a bit. We haven’t been able to publish very often. No paper, you see! No money! Nothing much to report – no new cars, hardly any races …’ He sighed heavily. ‘But you never know, we might be able to manage three editions this year.’ He added morosely, ‘Better than nothing, I suppose.

  A really cheerful fellow.

  She asked to see some of the recent editions. ‘Oh those!’ he said heavily. ‘They’re awful. I was only allowed four pages and an edition of five thousand. Hardly worth printing!’ He looked up. ‘When you say recent, how recent?’

  ‘Since the beginning of the war.’

  He gave her the editions for the last three years. There were a surprising number of advertisements. The editor commented sadly, ‘It’s everyone trying to sell cars they can’t afford to run.’ He pointed out the racing and sports types, the Bugattis, Maseratis, and Mercedes. Then there were the plush tourers, Delahayes, Bentleys – and Delages. Julie saw with relief that there weren’t too many Delages advertised. She started making a list. With only three editions per year for the last three years, the total number of Delages advertised, when she added it up, was only twenty-four. Some of those were duplicates of previous advertisements and when those were eliminated she ended up with sixteen.

  Some Delages had been advertised under box numbers. ‘May I have the names and addresses of the sellers?’ Julie asked.

  ‘I’m not meant to …’ the editor sighed. ‘But … seeing as the whole world’s gone mad and I don’t much care …’ He pulled a number of files out of a cabinet and threw them on the desk. ‘Here! They’re all in there somewhere.’

  And they were – scribbled in almost illegible pencil or heavy black ink with the words half smudged. After forty minutes she had them all. ‘Thank you. If I need to look at some more back copies, may I come and see you again?’

  ‘Why not!’ he exclaimed with a look of deepest depression. ‘I’ll still be sitting here, most likely. No events to cover, no new cars … God, yes! Why not! Come and cheer me up!’

  It was only when Julie got back to her room and was eating great mouthfuls of bread and cheese – the fruit had been too expensive – that she looked at the list properly.

  Her heart sank again. The Delage owners were spread all over the country, some as far away as Nice. Contacting them would be impossible: letters would take too long and telephone calls would be too difficult and expensive.

  There were telegrams, of course. But sixteen … They would cost more, much more, than she could afford.

  She lay back on the bed and, shaking off her shoes, examined a blister on her heel. The entire thing was hopeless. Why should Vasson have bought a car at all? Perhaps he’d hidden all his money and was lying low. Perhaps he’d squandered it years ago …

  The big time …

  What did it mean to him now?

  It was hopeless. She should go home. She barely had enough money to feed herself on the train. Her shoes were worn out. She was tired, so tired.

  She should give up.

  But then she remembered the hard black eyes and the coldness of him, and she muttered, ‘Merde.’

  One more day. Just one more day.

  She sat up and, reaching for her bag, searched in the zip compartment. The card was there, just where she’d put it all those weeks ago.

  Jojo had offered help. Well she wasn’t too shy to ask now. To use the language of the street, she needed the necessary. And the necessary was money.

  The count heard the sound of crunching gravel on the drive and hid. He was quite an expert at hiding now; creditors and angry tradespeople arrived almost daily.

  There were footsteps. The front bell jangling. The count peered through a crack in a shutter and saw a bicycle. It looked vaguely familiar. Of course – he had it now. It was the postman’s.

  Why should the postman be here in the afternoon? It must be bad news – a summons for a bad debt or something like that.

  He chuckled. Only six more days and the château would be stripped of all its remaining valuables. Then he would disappear to Paris and they could send all the summonses they wanted.

  The count watched the postman come into vision, mount his bicycle, and ride off down the drive. As soon as everything was quiet he hopped silently down the stairs to the main hall. He looked nervously towards the large double front doors. An envelope had been slipped underneath and lay invitingly on the stone floor.

  Impatiently the count strode over, grabbed the envelope and tore it open.

  ‘Good Lord!’ he exclaimed.

  It was a telegram. It read: INTERESTED IN BUYING DELAGE. IS YOURS STILL AVAILABLE?

  It was signed LESCAUX, followed by a post office box number in Paris.

  At the bottom the post office had stamped: ANSWER PREPAID.

  The count said, ‘Damn! Damn and blast!’ He’d known it! That deal had been a disaster. People were queuing up to buy the blasted car and he’d thrown it away. God, what a waste!

  ‘Damn!’ He repeated, and stamped off in the direction of the cellars to see if he could find a last b
ottle of claret.

  Later, he considered whether to reply. He decided against it. He didn’t see the point. He’d sold the damned car, hadn’t he?

  Another telegram came four days later. It read: IF CAR SOLD, STILL INTERESTED. URGENTLY NEED INFORMATION. PLEASE USE PREPAID REPLY. LESCAUX.

  The count took more interest. Whatever this was about, he could smell money in it. He slipped down to the village and sent a reply, saying that he’d sold the car recently and adding that he’d be in residence for only two more days.

  The following day there was the sound of an approaching car on the drive. The count took cover on the first floor. Through the shutters he saw the village taxi draw up. Out of it stepped a girl. Even from this distance he could see that she was rather a honey.

  He straightened his tie, walked down the stairs, and flung open the front door.

  The girl said, ‘I sent the telegram.’

  ‘Come in! Come in!’ He gestured her inside to the main salon, which was the only room still with any furniture in it. He offered her a Louis XV chair and apologised for the rickety legs. When they were seated, he smiled at her charmingly. ‘And to what do I owe this singular pleasure?’

  ‘Auto magazine. I’ve been contacting everyone who’s advertised a Delage for sale in the last few years. You advertised, so here I am.’

  The count smiled again, though he had the feeling his charm was wasted on this rather serious young lady. ‘But why come to me when I’ve already sold my car?’

  ‘Because you’ve sold it. Your car was one of the few that did sell.’

  The count frowned. ‘Ah. Not many have sold, then?’

  ‘No. Apparently there’s no market for them.’

  The count tried to feel mollified about his deal with the scar-faced young man, but he failed. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t been cheated.

  ‘But continue,’ said the count. ‘Why are you looking for a car that’s already sold?’

  ‘I want to contact someone, someone who may well have bought one.’

  The count’s curiosity was pricked. ‘You mean a particular person?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Someone you wish to trace?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  What a businesslike young woman this was, the count observed. Normally he didn’t like that in a woman, but in this case it would be an advantage. When they got to the nub of the matter – the money – she would be easy to deal with.

  ‘So – you wish to have details of the person who purchased my car.’

  ‘Please. Perhaps I could show you a photograph, to see if you recognise him …’ She dug into her handbag and passed him a small rather indistinct photograph. It showed a young man, no more than twenty, with a thin face and dark lanky hair.

  The count swore under his breath. This wasn’t the man. And if it wasn’t the man then there couldn’t be any financial negotiations. How annoying!

  The count pretended to muse. ‘Mmmmm. It’s hard to tell. This is a young man … The person I sold to was older, definitely older …’

  ‘In his thirties?’

  ‘Mmm. Maybe. Maybe.’

  The girl leant forward and peered anxiously at the picture. ‘What about the eyes? Do they look familiar?’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe.’ The count pretended to examine the face, then focused more sharply. Yes, now she mentioned it, there was something familiar about them. Good Lord. Maybe it was him after all! He said, ‘Yes, it definitely could be him. But the man I sold the car to was heavily scarred. His face was terrible, quite unpleasant to look at. He’d obviously been horribly injured in some way. What he looked like before … well, it’s difficult to be sure. It could have been this fellow, but I honestly couldn’t swear to it.’ Which was true enough and it should keep her sufficiently interested to come up with the lucre, which was the important thing.

  The girl’s eyes were blazing with excitement. ‘Heavily scarred …?’ She paused, deep in thought, then asked, ‘But medium height, dark haired and thin?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And his manner? Was it—?’

  ‘Hard. Unfriendly. Not a very nice fellow. Not a very nice fellow at all.’

  The girl’s look was triumphant and full of hope. ‘It just might be him!’ she breathed.

  ‘You’re obviously very keen to make contact.’

  ‘Oh yes!’ she exclaimed. ‘You do have an address don’t you? And a name?’

  So she didn’t even know his name. Better and better. ‘Will – might – this information be of value?’ the count began.

  For the first time she faltered. ‘Of value?’

  The count smiled sweetly and lowered his voice. ‘Will this information be of material value to anyone?’

  ‘Well …’ She was confused now. ‘If you mean, will it be of financial value, the answer’s no.’

  ‘I meant, rather, of sufficient value to someone to enable them to see me right. You know, recompense me for my trouble and the inconvenience of looking out the paperwork.’

  Her expression had hardened. ‘The person concerned has very limited means, very limited indeed. This is a matter of honour, of justice, not – money!’

  The count was unimpressed. Honour, justice, it was no matter: the price would be just the same. He’d learnt his lesson from the scar-faced young man. When the market was all in your favour you named your price.

  ‘I see, I see,’ said the count soothingly. ‘In that case I’m sure a very small fee will be sufficient. Shall we say four thousand?’

  ‘Four thousand!’ she gasped. ‘Out of the question. I don’t have a tenth of that!’

  The count made tutting noises. ‘What a pity!’ What a pity! There we are then.’ He started to his feet.

  She had gone quite pale, an expression of desperation on her face. She opened and closed her mouth a couple of times then whispered, ‘One!’

  ‘Three and a half!’

  They settled on three. The girl looked as though she’d been hit over the head. She turned her back to take the money out of her purse and the count guessed her purse was rather full. He immediately regretted having let her beat him down. Why was it he always got cheated by people with lots of money?

  He left her in the salon while he went to find the bill of sale. He copied the name and address of the young man on to some blank paper then put the bill of sale into his pocket. He took the piece of paper to the girl. ‘There we are!’

  She looked at the name and address as if she could devour it, ‘Lelouche …’

  He asked, ‘Could I have your address – just in case I remember something …?’

  She nodded and, reaching into her handbag, pulled out a scrap of paper and scribbled on it.

  The count placed the paper carefully in his wallet. ‘Did you keep your taxi?’ he enquired.

  ‘Oh … no. It’s coming back in a few minutes.’

  It couldn’t be better. The count said gallantly, ‘I’ll go and see if it’s on its way. Sometimes the fellow forgets.’

  ‘That’s not necessary.’

  ‘No, I insist!’

  Quickly he pulled on a coat, took his wallet and, leaving her pacing the hall, hurried down the drive.

  He met the taxi a short distance down the main road. He flagged it down, told the driver that the visiting lady had already left, and asked to be taken to the station in her place.

  A Paris train came in almost immediately. As the count got in he calculated that it would be a good two hours before the girl realised what had happened and walked to the station to find a train.

  Two hours should give him plenty of time.

  With a final lurch the cage rose to the ceiling. One of the workmen, balancing on a plank supported by scaffolding, leant across and guided the hook at the top of the cage into the massive eye which protruded from the ceiling.

  ‘What I’d like to know,’ one of the workmen mumbled, ‘is how the girl’s gonna get in there.’

  ‘Rope ladder.’

  At the
sound of Vasson’s voice the workmen fell back. Vasson stepped forward and eyed the cage critically. With the correct lighting it should look all right, he decided. The only disappointing thing was the height of the cage. He’d wanted it further away, more inaccessible. But the ceiling couldn’t be raised any more, so this was it.

  There was silence, the men waiting expectantly. Eventually Vasson said, ‘Yes, that’s fine.’ He could almost hear the sigh of relief; this was one of the few jobs he hadn’t asked them to re-do in some way.

  But it had been worth it. Vasson looked around him. The group of storerooms had been completely transformed. There was now one large room, which, because of the lighting, managed to look pleasingly intimate. Around the sides there were booths with seating for between two and six people, while in the centre there were a dozen small tables. At one side there was a stage with room for a performer, an upright piano, drums and bass. On the other side of the room there was a bar.

  The colour scheme was black, beige, and gold. Very striking. To soften the effect there were exotic plants everywhere, between the booths, hanging from the ceiling, around the light fittings. No-one had ever used plants before.

  Vasson had overspent his budget, but it had been worth it.

  Already everyone was talking about the place. At the opening the cage would be covered with a drape, then, accompanied by appropriate music, it was going to be unveiled to reveal a girl painted with gold. Her skin, that was. Apart from a G-string she’d be wearing nothing else at all. It would be a sensation.

  He turned and hurried through the club into his office, a small room at the rear. There were still a thousand things to do before the opening, and there was only one day left.

  Half an hour later there was a tap on the door.

  ‘Yes.’ Vasson barked impatiently.

  The new barman poked his nose into the room. ‘Someone to see you.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Wouldn’t say. But something important.’

  Vasson sighed. ‘Very well.’